Target
by yumi michiyo
Summary: Elsa wants to win the title at this year's Archery World Cup; so does her jerk of a teammate, Hans Westergaard. Unfortunately, they have to work together to take a shot at victory. A prompt-based multichapter fic written for Helsa Week.
1. Sighters

**Author's Note:** Written for the Helsa Week celebrations on Tumblr. Day 1 prompt: falling for you.

Extensive explanations of all the archery jargon can be found on my Tumblr: **yumi-michiyo**

* * *

Elsa was careful not to let her nerves betray her as she walked towards the field, bow bag slung on her back. This was it. Elsa Brundtland, Norway's under-25 women's recurve champion and gold medal hopeful, winner of the Bergen qualifiers for the Archery World Cup, and now one of the hot favourites of the competition.

"Good luck, Elsa."

She turned a tight smile on the smirking young man at her left elbow. "The competition doesn't start until tomorrow," said Elsa coldly, ignoring his outstretched hand. "Save it for then."

Much to her annoyance, his smirk only widened.

"Harsh. As expected of the Snow Queen, I suppose."

Elsa's jaw tightened at the use of that nickname – bestowed on her by the international press for her detached, calm demeanour under pressure – but she didn't respond, quickening her pace. It was supposed to be a compliment to her skill, but in his mouth it sounded mocking.

_Conceal, don't feel_, she thought.

* * *

Two ends into official practice, and Elsa's mood was not much improved. Her grouping was all over the target – far from her standard cluster in the centre – and she was making mistake after mistake.

Elsa took a deep, calming breath. Drawing the string back to touch the tip of her nose, she took aim briefly and released. Even before she heard the thud of the arrow hitting the target board, she knew it had been a bad shot; the string had not left her fingers cleanly.

"You plucked that last one," said Anna unhelpfully. "Didn't you get rid of that habit already?"

Elsa ignored her sister, bending to look through the scope. Black – 4 points. She scowled. "I know I plucked it. I'm a bit off-form today, I just need to get back into my stride."

"And now you're shutting me out again. What is it with you and bad habits today?"

Involuntarily, Elsa's eyes flicked over to the far right of the field, where a head of auburn hair stood out from the other archers on the shooting line. Unfortunately for her, Anna didn't miss it.

Her sister snorted. "Hans Westergaard? You had a run-in with the Prince of the Southern Isles?"

"It was nothing. Just him being an ass."

"I'd say. He was hitting on me in the breakfast hall this morning."

"He _what_?" In her surprise, Elsa released the arrow without clicking; it flew wide, the clicker tearing off a fletch as it went. Both sisters winced as there was no answering thud from the targets.

"_Anna_."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." She backed away quickly. "Later then."

* * *

There was no sign of her arrow, and Elsa hoped fervently that it hadn't gotten buried in the ground. They were her brand-new competition X10s, and she had only just seasoned them; even if she had packed her trusty old set, she had already tuned her poundage and setup to the new arrows.

"Need a hand?"

She groaned internally. Of course it had to be _him_, out of all the archers on the field. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Two pairs of eyes are better than one," said Hans placidly, an arrow in his hand, the point skimming the grass in search of her missing arrow. He glanced at the quiver on her hip, and the royal blue nocks and fletches on the arrows there. "Nice colour combination, by the way."

Elsa shot him an incredulous look out of the corner of her eye when she was sure his attention was elsewhere. He was being a complete gentleman, and it unsettled her for some reason. But in response to his compliment, she nodded, and turned her attention back to the grass.

"Aha!" Hans was walking to her, an arrow in his hand. "Yours?"

She sighed; the arrow in his hand was muddied, a fletch missing, but it was her X10, complete with the snowflake design she had drawn on the shaft. "Thanks," she said, reaching for it.

He held it just out of her reach, capitalizing on the half a head of height he had on her. "The snowflake marking is pretty, but I'm not too sure it conforms to FITA standards," said Hans.

"Nothing about my equipment is out of order," Elsa said through gritted teeth. She lunged forward and managed to snatch it away, her braid flying with her movements. "Thank _you _for finding my arrow."

"There's no need to be cold."

"I'm not. You're just being an incorrigible ass."

"You're welcome," he called after her.

* * *

"Ooh, you found it," said Anna brightly as she walked into Elsa's hotel room. Her older sister sat cross-legged on the bed, busy cleaning the arrow and affixing a new fletch. "Any damage?"

"Luckily no, apart from the fletch." Elsa blew on the arrow, making it spin in her hand.

"It was nice of him to help you find it too."

The blonde nearly dropped the arrow. "Wait, what?"

Anna cackled. "I saw everything. You're the only one he's been nice to so far, apparently." She flopped on the bed, making Elsa and her equipment bounce. "Maybe he likes you."

"The only thing Westergaard likes is that shiny trophy on the winners' podium. That's what we're all here for, in fact."

"Uh-huh."

Elsa poked her sister in the leg with her arrow, eliciting a yelp.

* * *

After Anna had retired to her room, Elsa reached into her toolbox and pulled out the scrap of paper she'd found attached to her arrow.

_Hans Westergaard – 113_, it said. She studied it for a moment, before crumpling it up and throwing it away.


	2. Ranking Rounds

**Author's Note:** Day 2 prompt: Like fire, like ice.

As before, extensive explanations of archery jargon can be found on my Tumblr.

* * *

Elsa _was_ nervous, despite her internal reassurances to the contrary; this was the world stage, and she was facing some of the world's best archers.

Currently, she was shaking the hand of the reigning world youth champion.

The girl grinned. "Merida Dunbroch. Pleased ter meet you."

"Elsa." They shook hands briefly; Elsa winced. She had forgotten she was still wearing her fingertab, making the clasp awkward. Merida just laughed.

"Elsa Brundtland. A pleasure ter finally meetcha in person."

"Likewise. That was quite the memorable victory over Everdeen in the World University Games."

"Och, ye're too kind. 'Twas a lucky shot an' ye ken it."

"Quite," said Elsa, the effort of deciphering the thick Scottish brogue becoming too difficult to sustain.

The intercom took pity on Elsa, crackling to life: "Attention archers. Three minutes until we will begin the sighting round. You will have three practice ends and then the first round will begin immediately after."

"Best o' luck."

"Same to you."

Merida turned away, bending to take up her bow from the bowstand and checking the sight. Unusually, she had only the barest of accessories: a single long stabilizer, what looked like a wood-composite riser, and wooden limbs.

Elsa glanced at her own top-of-the-line Hoyt setup; wood-foam composite limbs, sleek aluminium riser, and enough stabilizers to be called overkill. Usually the archers with the least conventional equipment were the ones to be feared, especially at this stage of the competition. Her hand stole to her arrows, counting them off; six of her best, plus two spares. Merida had eschewed plastic spin wing vanes in favour of what looked like traditional feather fletching, and – good heavens – were those wooden shafts?

The timer beeped twice. All other thoughts left Elsa's mind as she picked up her bow, tied the fingersling around her thumb, and stepped onto the shooting line. A little further ahead, she saw Anna's familiar auburn hair. Her sister, as though sensing Elsa's eyes on her, turned around and flashed her a thumbs-up.

Elsa smiled. The timer beeped once.

She slipped into habit. Selecting an arrow from her quiver, Elsa nocked it to her string and wrapped her fingers around the centre serving. Smoothly, she began the draw, hoisting the bow up and pulling, tensing her back muscles. Elsa took a breath, anchoring her right hand under her chin, sighting through the pin, continuing to expand –

The bow clicked. She released.

Glancing through the scope, she breathed a sigh of relief. Eight o'clock, blue. Not bad at all. She made the corresponding adjustments to her sight, taking the windsock fluttering behind the target into due consideration.

Her second shot was in the yellow. Line-cutter, possibly ten points. She furrowed her brow as she noted Merida's white fletches grouped in the centre of the target.

Elsa sent two more arrows into the yellow zone and then decided to call it a day for the sighting round. She had her sight; no point in expending her energy unnecessarily.

Besides, it seemed she was going to need it.

* * *

"And that marks the end of the last scoring round. Well done, archers. Don't forget to mark your arrow holes. Tabulate your scores and submit to the DOS stand to your left, and please bear with us while we come up with the rankings."

Elsa allowed herself a smile as she totted up her arrows. She was on form – thankfully, after the fiasco that was the previous day – with 695 points out of a maximum 720. Not her personal best, of course, but decent enough at world standards. Merida, for all her deadly accuracy, was a capricious archer as it turned out. She had some brilliant ends but did make a few mistakes; yet, her score of 693 was too close for comfort. Elsa privately hoped she would not be pitted against Merida in the individual matches.

Pabbie, the Norwegian team manager, came over. "How'd you do, Elsa?" She showed him her personal scorebook, and he smiled. "Excellent, as always."

"Elsaaaa!" Anna, her auburn braids bouncing, dashed up to her sister, followed by Kristoff at a more sedate pace. "I bet you shot 720, right?"

She laughed. "I wish. Here, what's your score?" Anna coloured, handing over her book.

"656? Anna, what happened?"

"I'm sorry!" she squeaked. "I had a bit of trouble with the wind, and then my lucky arrow lost a fletch!"

"I did tell you to up your poundage," said Elsa, running a finger over the table of arrow scores. "32 pounds is too light for you. With this wind, I think 36 would be quite comfortable."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anna stuck her tongue out and grinned. Her sister rolled her eyes and tugged on one braid.

"How about you, Kristoff?"

"698," he said with some satisfaction, and Anna elbowed him. "I had a good day."

"I bet it was that lucky reindeer charm of yours," giggled the redhead, tugging on the plush reindeer toy that dangled from his chest guard. "Aren't you such a lucky duck, yes you are!"

"Hey, hey. Don't talk to Sven like that."

"Attention, archers," crackled the intercom. "The individual rankings have just been posted."

"Let's go!" said Anna eagerly, grabbing Elsa and Kristoff and dragging them over to the scoreboards. "Mixed team results should be out as well!"

"Whaaaaaaaat?" Anna ran her finger down the list of names again, accidentally elbowing a disgruntled-looking archer in the face. "Elsa and _Hans Westergaard_?"

"Who knew he'd hit a new personal best?" said Kristoff. "707, phew. I'd kill to break 700."

"I'd just kill," said Anna darkly. "That jerk."

Elsa had both hands up, and was making placating gestures – in spite of the apprehension she was feeling. "Calm down, you two. It's not like I'm marrying him or anything. It's just the mixed team knockout allocations."

Hans himself appeared. "Ah, Elsa. Congratulations on being the top female archer on our team, by the way." He held out a hand; Elsa noted he was wearing golf gloves. "Thank you," she said, shaking it reluctantly. "Congratulations to you as well."

Anna was staring daggers at him; Elsa couldn't tell if he was pretending not to notice or was genuinely unaware. She suspected the former.

"We've both worked hard for this. I look forward to shooting with you this afternoon."

Elsa knew the polite thing was to echo the words, but she couldn't bring herself to.

* * *

Hans was startled out of his thoughts by a lunch tray clattering unceremoniously in front of him. "Okay," said Elsa loudly, "let's go over the team order now and get it out of the way."

He arched an eyebrow and said nothing; the scrutiny made her blush. "What's the hurry?" he asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork leisurely. She gritted her teeth.

"The quicker we decide, the less time I have to spend in your company."

"There's no need to be so cold, Elsa; we _are_ on the same team, after all." Hans took a bite of pasta and chewed. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on."

She scowled. "That it may be, but it doesn't mean I need to be civil to you either."

"It would certainly be more pleasant, though." He pushed away his tray, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "But I digress. Team knockouts. I shoot quickly, so I can cover for you."

"Do you have to be so bloody condescending?" hissed Elsa; she noticed the people around her staring at them, and blushed. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"Excellent. I look forward to your… _capability_, then." He rose, and smiled thinly. "Our progress depends on it."

Elsa opened her mouth, mustering an indignant reply, but her hesitation had given him ample time to vanish into the crowd.


	3. Mixed Team Knockouts - 1-8 Eliminations

**Author's Notes:** Day 3 prompt: Lost all control.

As always, extensive explanations can be found on my Tumblr, but for the supremely lazy:

The mixed team knockout format is 4 ends (rounds) of 4 arrows in 80 seconds, 2 arrows per archer. Highest cumulative arrow score wins.

A stab between a guy's legs is very, very painful. I've seen it happen.

A one-arrow shoot-off is pretty self-explanatory; one arrow per archer, highest total wins. In case of another tie, the judges select the arrow closest to the centre.

* * *

"Okay," said Anna, hovering around Elsa like an overexcited planet, "don't be nervous. If you're nervous, you'll mess up. Wait – no. I shouldn't have said that. You'll be awesome. Awesomer. Is that even a thing? Hey, Kristoff – "

"And that's quite _enough_," said the burly blonde, reaching out to grab Anna and physically drag her backwards. She gave a squeak of indignation. Kristoff grinned.

"Just shoot like you always do, Elsa; it's taken you this far."

Elsa smiled for the first time since lunch, when she had stalked back to her sister and her boyfriend, infuriated beyond words by her incorrigible teammate. "Thanks, Kristoff. You too, Anna."

Her bow in her hand, Elsa stepped on the equipment line; Hans was already there, twiddling with his sight pin. He looked up when she approached.

"Finally ready?" he asked. She fixed him with a hard look, and then nodded.

"I'm prepared to pick up your slack, yes."

Hans started, and then quickly transformed his look of stunned bewilderment into a grin. "Ohhh. I think I'm liking this side of you, Elsa. Is this the 'I-mean-business' Snow Queen talking?"

"_One more word_ that isn't related to the competition, and I will jam my stab between your legs."

He looked like he was still going to sneak in a word (and _so help her_, if he uttered _another_ word, she would fulfil her promise in spite of the strange looks the opposing Indian team was shooting her) but then the buzzer beeped twice. Elsa stepped up to the team waiting line and paused, her right hand already hovering over her arrows.

When the signal came, Elsa was already moving, her arrow loaded and nocked. She paused in pre-draw, reading the windsock behind the target; it fluttered faintly to the right, meaning a breeze from the left. Adjusting her aim accordingly, she shot and was moving off the line before she heard the dull thud of the arrow hitting home.

There was a dull roar from the scattered spectators behind them; from Anna's excited whoop, she knew it was a good shot.

"Ten points," said Hans, as he stepped forward to take his own shot. "Not bad."

Elsa looked him squarely in the eye. She wanted to yell at him for wasting their precious time, but instead she heard herself saying, "try not to mess up."

He only smirked.

* * *

Elsa chewed on her bottom lip. Three ends into the match, and the Indian team had the lead, but only just; they trailed 104 points to the Indians' 106.

She would have dearly loved to chew Hans out for the measly seven-pointer he shot the last end, but she knew her second arrow in the first end had been nothing to shout about. It was her own fault, really; Elsa had misjudged the wind, lost control of the shot, belatedly attempted to save the arrow at the last minute by jerking the bow, and ended up with a six-pointer.

For the final end, the Indians had shot first, and finished with a score of 148 – twelve points short of the maximum. They had to go one better, or shoot the same to force a one-arrow shoot-off; a scenario Elsa wanted to avoid as much as possible.

_This was their final end – and final chance_, the archer thought as she stepped up to the line. They currently had a score of 111. She had to do her best in the next two arrows, and hope Hans held up his end.

Hans was silent now, apparently feeling the pressure. Elsa could think of nothing else but blissful relief that his smart mouth was finally, _finally_ silent.

She took her first shot; nine points.

They exchanged places, and Hans shot. Ten points.

The score was now 130, and they were two arrows away from victory or elimination.

Elsa prayed to every deity she could think of before releasing. Ten points. They were now at 140.

It was all up to Hans now; he needed a nine or higher to win outright.

The field was silent as every eye watched him calmly nock his arrow and stand on the shooting line. The seconds ticked down on the electronic counter: 20, 19…

He brought his bow up, aimed for what seemed like an eternity –

Elsa found she was holding her breath.

He released.

Nine points. It was enough.

A roar went up as the calculations were made, and Anna screeched.

Elsa breathed a sigh of relief. _That… hadn't been so bad…_

And then he tossed her the most self-satisfied smirk she had ever seen on a man, and she regretted any and every sympathetic thought she had had about Hans Westergaard.


	4. 1-4 Eliminations and Semifinals

**Author's Notes:** Day 4 prompt: It's complicated.

Previously (I'm not sure whether it's still done now), the exact centre of the bullseye was where they'd put a pinhole camera in an attempt to make archery more interesting to watch (because let's face it, unless you're an archer yourself, most of what's going on apart from the shooting is lost on the average spectator). Once in a while, an archer would pull off this shot, which is nigh impossible; the camera is smaller than most arrows.

It wasn't explained in an earlier chapter, but poundage refers to the weight of the bow in pounds (duh). The higher the poundage, the harder it is to pull, and the faster your arrow is propelled. Elsa would be shooting 36-38 pounds, which is a little on the heavy side for women (especially one of her height and build). But as mentioned in the fic, heavier poundage helps negates the effects of weather on your arrows, making aiming easier.

Anchoring means to hold the bow in full draw, your bow hand fixed to your face. It's the pose you normally see in movie poster archers.

In archery, you actually use your back muscles to pull the bow, not your arms, which is a common beginner's mistake. But sometimes you can accidentally strain your arms/shoulders if you hold the bow in anchor position for too long.

The X is the absolute centre of the target although it's marked with a little plus sign on the bullseye. The pinhole camera is placed on the centre of the crosshairs.

If the British can have a princess (Princess Anne) on their Olympic equestrian team, I most certainly can have a Coronan princess and prince-consort on the German national archery team.

* * *

The next match was against the team from China. Elsa blinked; the shorter of the pair looked like a man.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a not-so-subtle nudge. "If you're quite done with your daydreaming," said Hans sardonically, "we're about to start the 1/4 eliminations, Your Majesty."

She quenched her anger by thinking of him impaled with hundreds of arrows, and actually was cheered enough by the image to smile back at him. "Thanks for the reminder, I'm ready now."

"If you say so," Hans fired back, but he looked distinctly unsettled by her calm.

* * *

Unlike their battle with the Indian team, the fight with the Chinese had less suspense, but was far more brutal. Both archers hammered shot after shot into the yellow zone.

Elsa was gratified to see Hans was focusing entirely on the match; not only did it mean he wasn't being infuriating as usual, but she was free to devote her fullest attention to it as well.

_I'm going to need it_, she thought, seeing the slight Chinese archer let fly an arrow that not only hit the bullseye, but smashed the pinhole camera in the centre.

Hans rounded on her in the impromptu break while officials removed the remains of the camera. "You'd better up your game, Brundtland," he hissed, using her surname for the first time in his anxiety, "you're practically dead weight now."

"I'm not the one who shot a five the last end, _Hans_," she said, relishing the shift in their relationship - _wait, what? Partnership. Yes. That's what this is. _"_You _pick up_ your _slack."

She all but stomped onto the shooting line when the buzzer sounded, pure ire driving her arrow into the bullseye, earning her a startled look from the Chinese archers and calculated indifference from Hans.

_At this rate, I'm going to earn myself a reputation as the angriest archer._

* * *

"They're not getting along, aren't they?" said Anna.

"That," replied Kristoff, "would be the biggest understatement of the century."

* * *

Hans' next arrow was a decent nine – the taller of the Chinese archers (Shang, Elsa remembered) matched it with a nine of his own. Elsa added another ten points, and was met with a ten from the other archer.

That brought the end to a close with a tie. Elsa groaned; it had become a one-arrow shoot-off. She barely heard the judge talking, explaining the rules to them.

She glanced at Hans, who stared back. Wordlessly, it was agreed she would shoot first.

As Elsa stepped on the shooting line, the wind began to pick up. She frowned; her poundage was nowhere near as light as Anna's but the wind was now enough to considerably affect her arrows.

The archer remained at anchor, adjusting her sight to compensate for the wind, ignoring the burn in her arms and shoulders as she held the position.

Finally, she released – and almost cried out, as pain tore through her left shoulder. Elsa moved off the line, biting her lip, keeping the injured shoulder as stiff as she could.

Anna was at her side in an instant. "Where does it hurt?" she asked. Elsa motioned with a jerk of her chin, hissing in pain as her sister gently explored the area with her fingers.

"It's not serious," she said with a sigh of relief. "But you need to ice it and keep it loose, minimise any swelling. With a bit of luck, you'll be fine for the rest of the competition." Anna knew better than to tell her sister to stop shooting for the day. She, however, was not above shooting Elsa a look, meaningful look.

The older girl gave her a sheepish look. "How was my shot?"

Anna grinned. "An X. Hans shot a ten; I'd like to see them beat_ that_."

The slighter of the two shot a ten, of course; but there was a loud groan moments later when Shang shot a nine.

"We won," said Elsa faintly, hardly daring to believe their luck.

Hans appeared at her side. "By a hair."

"No thanks to you." Elsa, already irritated by her carelessness and the pain in her shoulder, was about to tear into her teammate when a soft "Excuse me?" froze both archers in their tracks. They turned in the direction of the voice; the Chinese team stood there, glancing uncertainly between Elsa and Hans.

The Norwegian archer smiled. "Congratulations," she said, extending her hand to them. The smaller archer shook it, her grip surprisingly strong. "That was a good match."

"It was my honour to shoot against you. My name is Mulan. I must say, you are one of the finest opponents I have met," she said in careful English. "Hopefully I will meet you in the individual eliminations?" A wicked grin briefly crossed her face. "I would relish the opportunity to avenge our loss today, of course."

Elsa's smile widened. "Of course. I look forward to it too."

Shang, clearly still mortified by his last arrow, nevertheless smiled and nodded at the Norwegian team. "I wish you both the best of luck in the rest of the competition."

"Thank you," said Elsa. Hans echoed her words.

* * *

Compared to the dramatic match against the Chinese, the semifinals were considerably less heart-stopping. The team from Germany were clearly a couple and that had a huge impact on their dynamic; they moved with an easy fluidity like they were dancing.

It also helped that they were the home team and favourites.

"How does she stay upright with all that hair?" wondered Anna aloud as she watched the Germans walk to their side of the field, acknowledging the thunderous applause from the spectators. Kristoff sighed. "Open mouth, insert foot much, Anna? At this rate, you'll be banned from every competition there is."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Oooh, they're starting soon."

* * *

Hans was sullen throughout the match while Elsa had her game face on; a complete contrast to the cheerfulness radiating from the German girl. "Elsa, right?" she chirped. "I'm Rapunzel. I'd shake your hand, but we've got our fingertabs on, and we're about to shoot, so yes."

She nodded, distracted by the judge, but couldn't help smiling; the girl's rambling reminded her of Anna. _They would get along like a house on fire_. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rapunzel." Rapunzel beamed and wandered away to the equipment line.

Elsa was having a good match, for once. Her shoulder only niggled, not pained; even Hans was borderline polite as he threw all his energy into his shooting. The day was beginning to wear on them both and she was relieved to find that even he and his boundless snark had their limits. She was heartened that for all his attitude, he was still first and foremost a professional athlete.

"No fives this time around, Westergaard?" she couldn't resist saying.

"Only waiting on you, Your Majesty. It's not polite to go before a lady."

"Glad you've realised that." With her last arrow, Norway won the match, and the Germans took their loss graciously with all the affability of a benevolent host.

"I think we've lost the popularity contest," commented Hans as the crowd roared for the defeated Rapunzel and her partner (the former still waving excitedly, apparently having lost none of her energy). Elsa rolled her eyes.

"We just trounced their princess and prince-consort. What were you expecting?"

His eyes bugged out of his head. She smirked. "Oh, Hans," she said, "I expected you to know royalty when you saw it, especially after you were so kind to address me by my title."


	5. Finals and Day 2

**Author's Notes: **Day 5 prompt: Secrets, lies, and trust.

Kisik Lee is currently the head coach of the US Olympic archery team and creator of the National Training System which coaches are required to learn in order to be certified by USA Archery. It's based on his analysis of body control, muscular requirements, and mental concentration needed to generate a good shot. Personally, I've never heard of him, and I'm not too sure there can be a uniform system for archery, but this guy coached Brady Ellison – one of the world's best archers with a great form – so yeah, he gets a mention.

The individual eliminations work like this; in the ranking round, archers are ranked from top score to bottom, and the top 48 archers move on to the individual knockouts (IKO). 1st-ranked guy is matched against the 48th-ranked and so on, they shoot a set match like in the mixed team knockouts, winner moves on.

By now, hopefully you guys have become archery experts and don't need my notes anymore. That being said, enjoy the rest of the fic.

* * *

"This is it," said Elsa, her heart threatening to beat its way out of her chest, that same heavy pounding she always got at crucial points of competition. "The mixed team finals."

"And then it'll be all over," Hans said.

"At long last."

He opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a loud voice. "Weel noo," said a very familiar Scottish brogue, "if it isn't Elsa agin. This match jest got mair interestin'."

"Merida," she smiled, reaching out to clasp her hand, "I should have guessed we'd be up against you."

"O'course it'll be me ye'll face in th' finals, hae ye e'er doobted it?" Merida jerked her thumb at the blonde, heavyset young man beside her. "Me partner, MacGuffin." He grinned and said something that had Elsa and Hans blinking.

"Dinna fash yersel', no one kens a word he's saying."

"Oh." At a loss for words – which seemed to be how her conversations with the Scottish girl usually turned out – Elsa turned to the familiarity of her equipment. Her shoulder twinged warningly, and she ignored it, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

"Don't overdo it."

"... What?"

"Anna told me you injured yourself in the last round," said Hans, his golf gloves already on, leaning against his scope casually. "Don't overdo it, or you'll be in trouble for the individual event tomorrow."

Elsa mentally weighed the merits of being nice to him. "I could say the same to you, actually," she remarked. "Your form was a little out towards the end. Good thing you put that arrow down, or you'd have plucked that shot."

"You noticed?"

"Of course. This is our medal on the line here."

He grinned, and she was almost happy to see him in a good mood again – almost, until she quashed the thought.

"Our medal's already guaranteed; it's just the colour that'll be decided now."

"I can cover for you," said Elsa evenly.

Hans raised an eyebrow, and she smirked despite herself. "How generous of you, Elsa."

* * *

The Scots took a commanding lead, Merida's arrows hitting yellow with frightening precision.

Elsa couldn't resist a jab when she caught the look on Hans' face. "Scared?"

"On the contrary, Elsa, I'm looking forward to the challenge."

In his eyes she saw the fierce joy she knew well; the thrill of competition, and the anticipation of victory. She blinked. He smirked, and went up to the shooting line.

* * *

As the ends wore on, she was pleasantly surprised (for the third time in so many hours) to find Hans' original personality (at least, the first one she met) easier to get along with, and easier still to shoot with. It mattered little whether she liked it or not; she was a professional, and she had her goals clearly delineated. Heaven help any person or thing who attempted to divert her from them.

The match was tight, both sides fighting for control, only relinquishing an odd point here and there to the other. The lead constantly shifted. It was clear Merida was carrying the team, more than making up for her partner's shooting; while he was good, he was nowhere near the brilliance that she displayed.

"Her form is excellent," mused Hans aloud. "Perfect anchoring, smooth release, and constant expansion." Elsa hummed her agreement. "She doesn't move her head at all. I've seen archers who shot for years and couldn't do that."

"She must have started young with an excellent coach. Korean definitely. One of the retired Olympians – maybe one of Kisik Lee's students. I mean, look at the way she moves –"

"Yes, now that you mention it..." He fell silent, studying Merida as she followed through her shot. "Yeah, you're right. That's his shot cycle alright, I can't believe I didn't notice that earlier."

They blinked as they found themselves actually having a civil discussion, and agreeing on something to boot. It was a disconcerting feeling, and Elsa squirmed a little. She moved away, standing behind the shooting line, willing away the butterflies before the fourth and final end.

* * *

"Silver isn't too bad," said Anna soothingly as she jogged alongside her sister, attempting to pack up her scope. "It's a pretty impressive achievement for a first-time showing at the World Cup, plus from someone ranked in the outer hundreds..." She fumbled with her pouch, pulling out a smartphone and thrusting it in Elsa's face; forcing her to squint cross-eyed to see the table on the screen.

Elsa blinked. "You did the research?"

"Of course! The roaming data costs are murder, though, ugh."

"You didn't have to," said the blonde.

"Uh, yeah, I did," replied Anna. "I mean, the look on your face? Yeesh. Scary. Although," she added in an undertone as Hans stalked up from behind, "not as scary as his."

"I'm glad." Elsa fell back a little, matching her pace to his. "Good job on that last end, Westergaard."

"Hmm? Oh, Elsa. Thanks. Sorry, I was a little preoccupied."

"Back to the first name basis, are we?"

Hans smirked. "Which, alas, doesn't seem to apply to me."

"I don't recall asking you to use my first name at all, actually."

He shrugged. "A technicality?"

Anna interrupted their conversation gracelessly, clinging to Elsa's free arm. "You'll miss the award ceremony if you keep dawdling like this," she said briskly, shooting a glare at Hans which he pretended not to notice.

* * *

Hans was up early – earlier than even the other male archers – and headed to the practice range with a few energy bars in his pocket instead of sitting down with a hot breakfast. The recurve men's 1/48 eliminations was the first of what was scheduled to be a long and grueling day. It was still dark out when he reached the range; he zipped up his windbreaker against the chill.

He found a good place and set up his scope and bow, adjusting for the leftmost target board.

"Good morning."

"Huh?" He looked up – and his mouth fell open, letting a bit of granola fall from it.

Elsa, bundled in the team windbreaker as well, a scope in her hand, was looking everywhere but at him.

"What're you doing here so early?" asked Hans tetchily, partly annoyed at having his routine interrupted and partly bemused to see her.

She fixed him with a look colder than the morning air. "Sighting for you."

"You don't need to. I've always managed on my own."

Elsa narrowed her eyes. "Well, fine," she said curtly.

"...Wait."

She halted mid-stride, and spun on her heel with a suddenness that almost made him drop his bow. "What now?"

"I said that you didn't need to, not that I didn't want you to." Hans was smiling at her – a genuine smile which completely threw her off. "I'd be honoured if you'd sight for me."

"O-oh," said Elsa, unable to keep a heated blush from her face. She told herself it was just the cold. "Okay."

* * *

"So it looks like... oh, okay. She isn't coming back."

"Really now."

"Yeah. It's like watching one of those American romantic comedies. Totally conventional."

"Nothing like us, huh? You _ran_ out in the_ road_ in front of my _car_ and demanded I drive you around town to look for your sister because she skipped practice, and then you wolfed down one of those fast food things plus three boxes of chocolate. Now _that's_ unconventional."

Anna smiled. "Yeah. And then I managed to total your car too. Good times."

Kristoff shot her a fond look mixed with exasperation, something he had become very good at since dating her.

* * *

Hans checked the noticeboard for his first match. He raised an eyebrow at his opponent's name.

"You shot much better during the mixed team knockouts," commented the archer.

Shang sighed. "I was having a problem with my release and could not manage to work it out until the end of the first round."

"Feeling better today?"

"Much better."

"Good."

* * *

Mulan was acting as Shang's coach for the match. She hid a smile behind her towel as Elsa set up her scope behind the equipment line.

"I see you two have become more comfortable with each other."

Elsa blinked rapidly. "I-it's nothing like that! My scope is better than his, and our teammates are all busy elsewhere. It'll be a little pathetic if no one came to sight for him."

"Of course," said Mulan serenely.

* * *

**Author's End Notes:** *whispers in your ear* Elsa and Hans are totally tsundere in this one. *runs away*


End file.
